


sick day

by syrupwit



Series: typical human courtship [4]
Category: Invader Zim
Genre: M/M, Showing Up On A Doorstep And Pretending To Be Mail-Order Spouse In Hope They'll Just Go With It, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-10 04:21:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20521847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: Dib gets sick.





	sick day

Zim’s planned escalations are put on hold when the Dib fails to wake one morning. His phone alarm beeps at intervals, undisturbed, until it shuts off. Zim goes to scold him for missing breakfast (grape jelly and cheez whiz on hot dog buns, not that there’s any left) and finds him shivering in bed.

“What do you mean, you have ‘the flu’?”

The human squints at Zim, blankets pulled past his chin. “I’m sick. The flu is like a viral cold with worse symptoms. Basically I produce a bunch of mucus, my throat’s really sore, I might have a fever, and—I can’t go into work like this. Hand me my phone?”

Zim considers this while Dib calls his manager. He continues to think after the screaming begins, and is still thinking when Dib finally escapes the call.

Sickness. Sickness is caused by germs. Zim finds himself seized with rage at the notion that these insolent Earth microbes would dare invade Dib’s insides. Those insides are _ his!_ He claimed them years ago for Irk, with flags! He should reactivate his nanoship to blast the germs into oblivion. Yes… Flee before Zim, foolish, insignificant pathogens… He laughs, basking in his envisioned victory, the anticipated satisfaction of once more being proven sole master of the human’s guts.

“’on ’oo it.”

Zim pauses mid-cackle. “Hmm?”

Blearily, the Dib repeats, “You only laugh like that when you’re thinking about... doing something. So I said, don’t do it.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“Miz.”

“What? I am no doer of things! Take back this miserable slander at once.”

Dib says, “Miz. I saw you training crows to steal people’s eyeballs. I heard you bribe that squirrel to chew through Old Man Jenkins’ cable connection. I was there when you tried to disintegrate my boss. You do things.”

Zim wants to accuse him of having no proof, but sadly, it is likely that he does. He changes tack. “Dib-creature, my cherished lovepig—”

“Oh my god.” Dib breaks into a coughing fit.

“My precious human spouse thingy,” Zim forges on, “your mistrust grieves me. So deeply am I grieved, it burns my… heart. And when my heart burns? There are flames. Flames that can ONLY be extinguished with, erm, the stinky goo of your reaffirmed trust—”

The human has turned a satisfying shade of pink. “I’m begging you to stop while you’re ahead.”

At that moment, GIR pokes his head in. Cheez whiz cakes one of his eyes. “Master! That’s a big burrito. How did it get on the bed?”

“No, G—Roomba Butler, that is Dib. He has ‘the flu.’”

“Oh.” GIR scrutinizes Dib, who manages to look even more pathetic than usual with his flushed face, drooping hair, and pile of blankets. “Is he gonna die?”

Zim strokes his chin. “I wouldn’t rule it out.”

“You two are worse than my family,” Dib groans. “Look, can you just do a few things for me?”

Sick humans are relatively simple to care for. Dib takes his temperature, downs a handful of pills, and falls asleep after another coughing bout. Zim is left with a shopping list and one instruction: Don’t wake Dib unless the apartment is on fire.

Right. He can do this. Zim has been to the store, multiple times. It should be a piece of steak to retrieve the items that Dib requires. Just because he’s never driven the car by himself before, it doesn’t mean… it doesn’t mean…

“GIR, prepare the Voot.”

“Yes, sir!”

They glide over the city, disguised as an advertisement for a nonexistent cola. Zim’s thoughts drift back to his grand scheme. It’s a pity that the meat-beast had to derail things with his suffering. Stupid Dib, always ruining Zim’s plans. Well, that won’t be the case for long! Soon he’ll be begging to eat off Zim’s boot. Heh. Zim gives a little kick at the thought, and almost crashes the cruiser into a tree.

They land on the roof and sneak in using the cargo entrance in back. It’s safer that way. Zim finds a basket—he does not trust GIR to carry their groceries—and they proceed through the aisles, stopping occasionally to argue over impulse buys.

It’s easy enough to find most of the products on the list. Tea, sports drink, cough drops: the Dib will want for none of these. What proves elusive is the final item, chicken noodle soup. The canned soup aisle is cleared out, and the instant soup aisle boasts only bouillon cubes. Even the kosher section is sold out of both the noodle and matzoh ball varieties.

The next store has no chicken noodle soup, and neither does the next. They drop the other groceries at home and trek all over town in search of soup, heading back around sunset. The convenience store next to Dib’s apartment has a single can left in its food section, but someone snatches it when Zim’s back is turned.

“Curious, GIR. Most curious.” Zim stands in the parking lot, scanning the area with a handheld device doctored to resemble a smartphone. “There is no such soup for purchase in a twenty-mile radius. However, I’m sensing an unusual concentration of the substance… right in those bushes over there!”

The bushes rustle. In the shadows beyond the streetlight, a strange figure forms. It moves toward them, leaking an ill-smelling liquid and squelching with each step. 

“It is I, Noodleman,” the figure hisses. “For one day at the start of every flu season, I descend upon the city to take my rightful tribute in soup. Defeat me, and my soup is yours; lose, and spend eternity in salty, chicken-y hell. Now prepare, sorry human, for the fight of your life!”

Rolling his eyes, Zim activates his PAK legs.

* * *

By the time Zim and GIR finally get home, exhausted and dripping soup, it’s late at night. The kitchen is a mess. Zim packs away the soup stash and cleans himself as best he can. He still smells like fake chicken broth. Ugh.

Dib is sleeping peacefully, his breathing noticeably less labored. Zim joins him under the blankets and shuts his eyes.

* * *

Zim wakes up with a strange feeling in the back of his throat, right above his squeedily spooch. He blinks and finds his eyes crusted over. When he tries to sit up, his whole being aches. 

“No! What is wrong with my superior body?”

His distress rouses Dib, who spends several minutes checking Zim over. Zim shakes with fear, watching Dib frown at the thermometer reading.

“I can’t believe it either, but I think you caught my flu.”


End file.
